


Unbuyer’s Remorse

by eloquated



Series: Unexpectedly Wonderful [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Parentlock, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 21:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17774966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: It’s their first Valentine’s Day.No pressure.Right?





	Unbuyer’s Remorse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlock221Bismymuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/gifts).



> What do you do when you have four hours in a car, with nothing but endless trees for a view? Well, today I ended up writing the fic I was worried would have to wait until I got back!
> 
> Happiest of Valentine’s Days to my wonderful, encouraging, and always inspiring partner-in-crime, S! 
> 
> (And please forgive any formatting or typos... I promise I’ll try and get them fixed when I have a computer again!)

“Of course she wants something… Sherlock, I know this is all new to you, but trust me, mate. You don’t get a woman pregnant, and then forget Valentine’s.  Even if you think it’s a pointless.” From his space in his former chair (and more recently occupied by several bits and pieces of half-assembled crib) John motioned towards the door with a flick of his hand.

Sherlock grit his teeth, his fingers curling just a little too tightly on the bow of his violin.  He’d known from the beginning that he was out of his depth— what did he know about being a boyfriend?!  But he was committed now, and it wasn’t as though he wanted to leave… He just…

Well, he wished it was all a little clearer.

“Molly  _ said _ she didn’t want anything.  She said she doesn’t  _ like _ Valentine’s Day.” He protested, and hated the way his voice sounded distinctly sulky.  How was trying his best, but how could he be anything like a good boyfriend if Molly didn’t tell him how?

“They always say that.  Women, yeah? But of course she wants you to do something.  Bet you anything she’s a romantic, right? And Valentine’s is the day you’re supposed to do it.  Tradition, and all that.”

Privately, Sherlock gritted his teeth and refused to comment on the actual history of Valentines.  It was probably one of those facts that John wouldn’t find nearly as interesting as he did, anyway.  And besides, he doubted it would help his case.

“It’s like a test, Sherlock.  She says she doesn’t want anything, and you’ve got to figure out what she actually does want.”  

It all sounded beastly and unpleasant, and the last thing Sherlock wanted to do.  But he didn’t want to let Molly down— more than anything, he was aware of his shortcomings as a partner, and he wanted her to be happy.

With him, of course.  And only him. 

Well, and the baby. But considering their child was currently only a few inches tall, and comfortably tucked inside his- her- their- mother?  Sherlock felt safe leaving them out of the equation.

For two years he’d dreamed about coming back home.  To her. Because he’d managed to miss the obvious before he left, and  _ he loved her _ . It had been the most jarring revelation of his life.  

Making up for lost time had left them in their current predicament, and Sherlock was annoyingly aware that they were doing everything backwards.  

“Right.”  He huffed in defeat, and resisted the urge to toss his violin onto his usual chair, “You’re the one with the experience.”

 

***

 

It didn’t turn out to be quite that easy.  In short order, John had rejected most of his gift ideas as too scientific, too impersonal, or just plain  _ wrong _ (a classification that annoyed Sherlock to no end, because it gave him nothing to work from). 

One store after another turned up nothing but dead ends.  Molly didn’t wear much jewelry, and her workplace forbid scents.  John promised that books were a terrible idea, because they weren’t  _ romantic  _ (another term that Sherlock wanted a better definition for), and suggested lingerie.

Sherlock was fairly sure that was more of a gift for  _ him _ , but pointed out instead that he hadn’t the faintest idea what sort of slinky, lacy things she would even like.  Or how to fit clothing over a woman with an ever-expanding middle, and all the self consciousness that came with it. 

Even John hadn’t been able to argue with that point.

Electronics felt like bribery (“I’m sorry I got you pregnant and now you’re stuck with a partner that has no idea what he’s doing.”)

Flowers were nice.

Flowers, Sherlock thought, that sounded safe!  Until a detour to the florist had resulted in a stalemate.  John was convinced that yellow roses were the thing— after all, she liked yellow.  And Sherlock was just as stubbornly convinced that he wasn’t going to give his girlfriend flowers that symbolized infidelity.

So they left the shop with the tentative promise to return, if they could find a happy compromise.

Somehow, Sherlock didn’t think that would be happening anytime soon.

And why-  _ why _ — did Molly want to test him like this!?  It didn’t seem like her at all. But John was so very sure, and Sherlock simply couldn’t take the risk.  If John was right (a hateful thought, in itself!) then he was well on his way to buggering up their first Valentine’s.

His Molly was special.  She deserved something to make her as happy as she’d made him.

After a day of shopping, and no luck, John suggested tickets.  An experience. Something they could do together! 

No, not the museum exhibition of medical history. There was nothing romantic about trepanning or leeches.  Nothing. Try again, mate, you’re barking up entirely the wrong tree.

By the end of the week, Sherlock was at the end of his tether.

 

***

 

Valentine’s Day dawned with a cloud over London, and an even darker one over its only Consulting Detective. The date was circled in ominous red pen on his private calendar, and he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do.  He’d hit the deadline with empty hands, and John’s words filling his belly with a sick sense of dread.

Would she leave him?  Obviously it was a risk— would this be the last straw, or the proof she needed that he was a rubbish boyfriend?  If it was a test, he’d failed it spectacularly.

He’d even considered calling his brother; but what did Mycroft know about relationships?  It would have been the blind leading the blind.

The bedside clock was uncomfortably insistent when he opened his eyes, reminding him in stern, red block numbers that he was out of time.  It impartially ticked away the minutes, mocking him, when all he wanted was to lie there and listen to the sound of Molly’s sleeping breaths.

He wanted to hold her a little closer— and so he did— cradling her against his chest and burying his nose in her tousled brown hair.  It had never stopped feeling miraculous, the way she fit in his arms; Molly Hooper was no ravishing femme fatale, but she was  _ his _ .

She was the woman who made him feel human.  Who made him want to be better.

She took care of him, and made him laugh… She was perfect, just for him, and now he was going to lose her.

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, not really.  But the pressure in his chest was unbearable, squeezing down on his lungs until they burned.  In the quiet of his bedroom—

No,  _ their _ bedroom, with her things hanging in the closet, and a spare toothbrush in the bathroom, and somehow 221B had become theirs in every way but the official— 

Sherlock pressed his cheek against the top of her head and tried to ignore the miserable tear that rolled down his face.  “I’m sorry, Molly..”. 

“Mm, sorry?  What for?” 

With a jolt, Sherlock realized that Molly was awake, her words slow and thick with the vestiges of sleep.  But here eyes were slowly opening, flickering a little at the light, before she nuzzled warmly into the side of his neck.

“It’s Valentine’s, and I haven’t.. I couldn’t find anything for you.”

Molly blinked, one eyebrow arching slightly in confusion.  For a long moment she tried to puzzle out that ridiculous statement, her gaze fixed on Sherlock’s miserable expression in the hopes that there would be some answer forthcoming (there wasn’t).

“Sherlock, I don’t  _ like _ Valentine’s.  I think it’s.. well, it’s silly, isn’t it?  All this pressure on men - and why is it always men?  To find ‘the perfect’ gift, just because an arbitrary date says you should?”  With a shake of her head, all sleep mussed and rumpled, Molly leaned up to peck a kiss under his chin, since it was the easiest place to reach.  “And I told you I didn’t want to do anything.”

“You did, but… John said you probably  _ actually _ did.  And-“

“It was a test?”  Molly finished for him, the curve of her mouth softening slightly, “I’m not going to set tests for you, Sherlock.  If I want to do something, I’ll tell you.. I don’t expect you to be a mind reader, no matter how brilliant your deductions are.  There’s no..”. She paused mid sentence, still half draped against his chest, and kissed the rueful slant of his lips.

“Next time you want to know what’s going on in my head, ask  _ me _ .  Not John Watson.”  

She wasn’t leaving.  Sherlock’s heart thudded hard against his ribs as he finally registered what an idiot he’d been, and crushed her hard to his chest.  One hand cradled the back of her head, long coils of soft brown hair spilling through his fingers, as he pressed a shaken, wordless kiss to her forehead.

He hadn’t ruined anything!  She was still here, his Molly, all warm and real and laughing against the side of his neck.  She still loved him, even if he didn’t know what he was doing.

“There’s.. still the exhibition.. If you wanted to go?”  In the half light of the bedroom, Sherlock sheepishly blew an errant curl of out his eyes, and tried not to over think the offer.

“The one on medical history?  I’d love to!”

And maybe it wasn’t John Watson’s sort of romantic, Sherlock realized with a jolt, but it was  _ theirs _ .  His Molly, his family.  His hand mapping down to the shallow curve of her belly with the knowledge that everything was going to change.  

They’d done everything backwards.  Different.

Perfect.

  
  
  



End file.
